I thought I'd post something a little different today. I have a ton of stories I'd been working on for a while, so I figure I'd wrap one of them up here and post today, on the last day of the year, a day where so many dreams and promises from a year ago fall and die, but also where new dreams begin again. While the whole resolution game I don't necessarily by into, there is a spiritual side to resolutions that can be fun to play with. I hope I played with this one in a manner that people find enjoyable. Anyhow, it is a bit on the longer side, but I do hope you are able to take something out of it. And, of course, Happy New Years to those who haven't past the midnight hour yet, and a Happy Belated New Year's to those where 2011 is already a thing of the past.
As
I sanded off the dust that dwelled peacefully atop this seldom used and left
behind chest of hope, I coughed, a penance for awakening the ghosts of past.
Digging through the chest, I found a spider-glass I had but seen one time
before, at a pawnshop on some trip, to where the location escaped me then and
there. I examined that glass and
recalled that I had, up until that exact moment, that it had ever been made,
that it ever existed. I am sure it
recalled the same thoughts of me, as I held its future in my hand. Amongst the cobbled patterns of brick and
clay, so many memories were simply left behind, left for me to dust off
this-five days prior to-New Year’s Eve.
Since
the days of child-time, I have always believed in ghosts—those beings, once so
alive and proud, now stranded in the places it once did know. Like many, I believed the attics to be their
throne rooms—the place they roam, back and forth, only hoping the living shall
grace their sight, and for their forms and voices to once again, be seen and
heard alive. In the attic of this place,
a place I so fondly call home, each box left behind became an adventure in
itself, never knowing exactly what will be collected as each flap of cardboard
springs to life as I dig right through.
The
rational being I am, one who tries to lead a life of logic, sound to every end,
realized that the appraisers & realtors both, must have searched these
boxes before, and the handprints left in the dust upon, provided the proof to
such thoughts I had. Yet, the hearth
that rose from the parlor below, also lived here this high, and it looked as
if, perhaps, it’d never been touched by hand or eye—brick and dirty mortar
collided, yet not a fingerprint could I spy.
I
placed my hand, flesh to brick, and felt the comfort of original construction
cold and thick. I expected to find simple
sensations, the kinds one would immediately think upon—the coarseness of the
jagged mortared edge, a sense of coolness and of course, the touch of
solidified particulates of dust combined.
Yet, my mind flashed back, along and over through, the 150 plus year
history of my home, and the collision of ideals, personality, styles and
trends, clashed with the truncated backstory the seller had told me, back
before, way back when.
And
there, but inches, from the heart of this home, behind the structured brick, I
noticed a few loosened, perhaps through time, perhaps from age. Cautiously I examined each, deliberating as
whether to remove a block to see, if anything of importance was stashed
between/behind. After several slow
pushes, back and forth, my hand removed three of the homes originality—bricks
of purpose, bricks of wisdom, and realized that, all of this history is now
mine, and whatever comes after this, is but another chapter in the storied past
of what I was about to find
Behind
the brick and mortared space, a latch did exist, apparently rusted from its
ultra-extended dose of sleep. I pulled
upon it, tightly as I could, eventually an opening, in the wall appeared,
enough to reveal, a darkness that only it would ever understand. Realizing the space continued on, I removed
more bricks until I could step full within, the lost crawlspace, the one I knew
not of, as it was not described by the sellers or listed in the blueprints I
received from the town back then, back before all this was mine.
I
crawled the dark space for a length of time I could not tell, for between the
cobwebs and adrenaline I cared not how long this passage swelled. But of
course, I would find the end, which turned out to be more brick, more brick and
more brick again. I couldn’t wrap my
head upon the reason for this hidden corridor.
What purposes did it hold? What
secrets did it once conceal?
So
therein, in the darkness, of this dirty, dirty, darkened space, I sat on the floorboards,
back to brick, legs & arms crossed in awe.
It was at this point I heard the clicking of gears and the whistling of a
wind. Stunned by the noise, so close, so
near, as if I was amidst a clockwork changing hands. I sat in the darkened dark, stunned, shocked,
scared, excited too. I contemplated all
the reasons that could be true? Was the
sound built out of fear, was it a defensive trap built to seal, secrets inside,
or perhaps to keep what’s interred from escaping outside.
The
noise then stopped, and a crack of light lit my space rather well. I could now see, where it began, that it
grew, beginning from beyond, the wall I just had leant upon. I walked ever close and birds I now heard,
chirping soft, as if the imagination was playing games, yet clear as the sound
of birds can be. Instantly I figured
that some of these so-called feathered friends, had discovered some holes, to
which a nesting place was built. How and
why could this still be? These and more questions ever-puzzled me.
Pushing
brick as well I could, I struggled; I shrugged, as the sweat drifted down from
brow, altering the consistency of the cotton that clothed me some. Then I pushed, just enough, to open the
pathway free. The rest moved
easily. Next, I placed left foot
forward, yet felt nothing, nothing at all, except the inexplicable emptiness of
an open space. I twizzled my foot, back
and forth, but reach anything, anything at all, I couldn’t reach, not then or
there. I grabbed the remaining brick,
the one’s that I didn’t think I’d need to move, and worked them free until all
of me could move within. I entered and dropped, into a type of half-lit, yet
darkened cell, one with a ceiling, clearly in view. I lifted myself up back to the space itself,
turned around and fully saw, a sight that would cause the deepest drop of
jaw. A world, of colors, a world of
light, a world of vegetation impossible to dream, was but seconds alive in
front of me. Had I hit my head? Was I losing myself in such an annotated
catch of sleep?
I
did not believe what I saw, a world, zoo, some place steeped in every kind of
impossibility. The contrast of this euphoric Shangri-La and its expanse of
sound and color to that of my home, was beyond anything I could perceive,
stranger than the oddest oddity of dream-like thought I’d ever forged. This house, my house, was built with, was
composed of, concrete, mortar, brick and clay.
The
neighborhood to where I stood was forever loud, filled with traffic booms,
overzealous children and the occasional lover’s quarrel late at night. These familiar sights and sounds reoccurred,
or so it seemed, all of the days and nights I could remember, to the point that
they just became, part of the framework of where I spent the greatest amount of
my time. This home was nowhere near the
rural outskirts of the town. The
buildings don’t even turn into trees for about a good hour’s drive down from
here. That rural existence, while
although having spent many hours in my youth, and having acquired much
familiarity with, could not have possibly allotted my mind, even my
subconscious, to compile enough data, to which a recreation so detailed such as
this could be seen through. No, not even in slumber, as there are always
inconsistencies between dream and reality.
And even if any of the above could be true, then how does, this place,
this vision I here see now, feel nothing like the countryside I knew as a child. So, tell me how?
I
dared not take another step. There was a
path, but I feared it would crumble after my weight-applied pressure to its
ancient looking steps. One misstep, one
crumbled stone, could send me to an undesired, downward spiral, to only God
knows where. I couldn’t care to think of what species of beast or man-like
entities collaborated below, how the atmosphere in that thick vegetation would
affect my weakened mortal lungs. No, I
dared not take another step.
So
I sat, for hours and hours more, feet dangling into the garden scene there
right seen. And wondered long, oh so
long it felt I did, if a place like this ever did or even could exist, if it
would be here tomorrow and/or the next.
But for all the time I spent in that pose, I couldn’t dream of stepping
off this ledge. Sure, there were those brief peaks of courage and those minute
cries to adventure, heard from the distance that echoed kindly within. But I could not go a single distance more; it
was not logical to think anything good could come of such a quest, a quest to
where no one knew where I had gone and disappeared off to. No, I couldn’t, yes parts of me certainly
wanted to, but I knew I shouldn’t, so I didn’t.
For
all the time I spent there on that unbelievable ledge of mine, I thought things
like I just described, many more thoughts I couldn’t nor would not
exchange. But, for the most part, I just
enjoyed all the sights and scenery, all the sounds new to ear, all the every
possibility possible in here, a place I felt would disappear if I dared rest my
head or close my eyes. But the answer
came, just then, and there I knew, just gazing, out the hole concealed by wall,
that was found at the very end, of a lost crawlspace evading view, so long,
behind its brickwork veil, hidden in this attic, of a fixer-up, I had purchased,
just months before New Year’s Eve would be through. It was then, that I knew.
